


Rising From the Ashes

by remanth



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: post-CATWS, rising from the ashes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-27
Updated: 2015-07-27
Packaged: 2018-04-11 14:48:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,614
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4439951
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/remanth/pseuds/remanth
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Winter Soldier goes on a mission to discover who he really was.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Rising From the Ashes

It was the exhibit in the Smithsonian that filled in so many blanks. Granted, they were almost meaningless words but it helped. It helped him to understand the emotion in his target’s eyes and voice. It helped him to understand the name spoken, the name that he didn’t recognize but struck a chord so deep within him that reverberated throughout his entire being. And his target pulling the mask off while he was fighting helped. Reminded him he wasn’t a muzzled dog but a human being. They’d tried to make him forget, hurt him and wiped his memories. But that chord still reverberated. While he’d gone along with them to stop the pain, seeing his target again had broken through once again. He just wished he knew _why_.

It was heady, this freedom from his handlers. Heady and terrifying. He couldn’t quite remember the last time he’d been on his own like this, no one to answer to and no mission to complete. Well, no mission given to him. This was a mission all his own and so much more important for all that. The first order of business had been disguise and blend in. With his training, it was incredibly easy. Just sneak into a laundromat after closing and go through the lost and forgotten clothes. Finding something that relatively fit him was easy. At the bottom of the pile was an old, bedraggled baseball cap and he pulled it on over his hair. It helped, made him feel a little more at ease walking among so many people without his uniform and mask.

Food was next, his stomach grumbling angrily at the time it had been since he’d last eaten. His handlers had always given him bland foods, mostly oatmeal and slices of something he charitably called meat. Different scents assailed his nose, drawing him to another section of town not far from the laundromat. A restaurant with glowing signs in the windows disgorged a couple patrons from its doors. It was quiet inside, the room nearly empty. The red sign in the right window proclaimed the name of a chinese restaurant. He slipped inside, the scent of rich food drawing him in.

“Table for one?” a cheerful voice asked him and he had to clench his teeth in order not to jump or show fear. He hadn’t really expected anyone to see him.

“I... I don’t have money,” he said, the words sounding odd in his ears. He could count on the fingers of one hand the times he’d spoken over the past few years. The woman in front of him pursed her lips and looked angry, mouth opening ready to kick him out of the restaurant. “But I can work for a meal.”

She looked him up and down, taking in the ill-fitting clothes, pale skin, and the broken look in his eyes. There was something about him that made her want to take care of him while at the same time there was something that frightened her. The silence between them stretched on and the man’s face closed up as he started to turn away. The hunch of his shoulders and silent way he’d already accepted her denial made her decide to help him. Besides, one of their dish washers had called in sick and they could use the help.

“Sit, sit,” she said, gesturing towards one of the tables. “You eat and then you’ll wash dishes afterwards.”

“Thank you,” he whispered, turning back towards her. The ghost of a smile crossed his lips, another unfamiliar feeling. He sat down and looked over the menu she brought over. There were so many choices he felt overwhelmed. Eyes widening, he scanned over the words again and again, trying to calm his suddenly racing heart. His hands shook and the words blurred.

“How about I bring you some soup?” the woman suggested as she watched, sympathy on her face. She recognized the signs, knew a bit of what was troubling him. Her brother had gone to war and come back in much the same way. PTSD the doctors called it. Sickness of the heart and soul she’d called it. 

He nodded, setting the menu down with relief. Soup sounded good. Whatever it was, it would be better than what he’d been eating. While the woman hurried off, he busied himself with looking around the restaurant. Automatically, he marked every exit and every other person that he could see or hear. As he waited, the only other person in the restaurant finished his meal and left cash on the table. He left without even a backward glance, whistling cheerfully once outside. The woman came back with a steaming bowl of egg drop soup and set it in front of him. With a nod of thanks, he picked up the spoon and started eating.

The first taste was heavenly and he had to pause for a moment just to savor it. It was rich with just enough salt for flavor. A vague memory of enjoying not egg drop soup but hard-boiled eggs with a skinny blonde with bright blue eyes ran through his mind. But it was gone before he could really grab onto it or even figure out the emotions he felt about it. He ate the rest of the soup slowly, wondering if it would tease out any more memories. When the bowl was empty, he felt a little disappointed that it hadn’t. The woman brought out two plates to him next, one with steamed rice and the other with chicken and vegetables. 

“Here you go,” she said, setting both plates down and picking up the soup bowl. “Thought it might be easier if I just brought something out to you.”

He nodded his thanks and just stared at the food for a moment. It smelled delicious and looked so much better than the bland food he’d been given before. Taking a bite of the rice first, he chewed slowly and waited to see if more memories rose. No images did but he could remember laughter. Laughter and conversations and a shared camaraderie that he desperately missed. The rest of his meal was eaten just as silently as he’d eaten the soup with the woman throwing glances his way every once in a while. He was alert to every single one but felt no threat from them. And when he was done, he was taken into the kitchen and washed dishes until he’d paid for his meal.

“You know, if you need a job, we could use another dish washer,” the woman said when he was done. She’d glanced once at his metal arm when he’d taken his jacket off but hadn’t asked about it. He was grateful for that. “You look like you need the work.”

“No, thank you,” he said, shaking his head. “I... I have something I need to do.”

“Well, all right,” she replied. “But if you ever decide you want the job, come back and talk to me. I can tell you’ve been through some rough times.”

He could only nod his thanks and leave. The sympathy and concern made him uncomfortable. For so long he’d been treated as a thing, an _asset_ , that someone actually caring was foreign and unimaginable. But there were things he had to accomplish, things he needed to learn and remember. Now that he had his disguise and had eaten, he could go about learning them. As he left the restaurant, a bus rumbled past giving him his next clue. On the side of it, a banner loudly proclaimed the newly-opened Captain America exhibit at the Smithsonian. The blond man in the red, white, and blue uniform was the same man as his target and he knew where he had to go next. If he learned more about him, it would lead him to information about himself.

Two hours later, he found himself slipping through a crush of people chattering excitedly and looking at different parts of the exhibit. Memories whispered in the back of his mind, disconnected feelings and words that never bubbled up enough for him to capture and hold. But it was enough to tell him he was on the right track. And then he found the glass display featuring a picture of a clean-shaven man with brown hair and blue eyes staring off into the distance. It was a shock seeing it, seeing himself up on that glass. At least a version of himself. He read through the little story, learning about James Buchanan Barnes and how he’d worked alongside Captain America with the Howling Commandos. How Sergeant Barnes had fallen to his death. Memories rose up now, rising from the ashes of his past, to go along with the words he read.

“Bucky,” he whispered, finally understanding the name his target had given him. “My name was Bucky.”

Now he knew the name of his target and the skinny blonde from his memory. Steve. Someone he loved and was incredibly loyal to. Had gone back into war and death in order to fight at his side and keep him safe. Everything Hydra had wiped away and hidden from him started to come back though the memories felt as if they were a step removed. It didn’t feel like him anymore, like he was the one who had lived through all of it even though it all belonged to him. Taking one last glance at the centerpiece of the exhibit, with the uniforms of all the Commandos ranged in front of their photographs, Bucky left the exhibit. There was so much more to do and become but he had a foundation to build on. It was enough.


End file.
